


Comma

by Transistance



Series: Butterflies [5]
Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Guilt, Injury Recovery, Memories, Relationship Discussions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-15
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-07-24 04:24:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7493730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Transistance/pseuds/Transistance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Only a handful of days have passed since Campania. Grell is still alive, in spite of everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Comma

He had left her to die.

Recognition of this fact is cruel but unavoidable. In taking Ronald Knox back immediately he had sentenced Grell to death ( _cold_ and _sodden_ and _alone_ ) as perfectly as he had when he'd made the conscious decision to kill her, on that empty moon-washed rooftop after she'd murdered her counterpart ripper. And once again she has only been spared his ill-conceived sentence by intervention of a creature with no reason to wish her well. Once again he has failed her, and the memory of her misconduct is paling fast, becoming just another facet of her immense personality. Cruelty, vindication and bloodlust – alongside the kindness and empathy and understanding that he knows. And forgiveness, _god_ , far too much of it. The way that her whole being had lit up when she'd laid eyes on him on the boat has shaken him, badly, because recently he has only hit her and kicked her and piled mountains of verbal abuse – undeniable, quantified hate – in order to estrange her from himself, pretend that she's someone else entirely. Because if she's still Grell then he still loves her, loves the fragments that weren't ripped apart as she took her feelings out on working women, loves the memories that persist even as he tries to banish them entirely.

(It's just – little things. Brushing her fringe out of her face for her when she's trying to look smart. Exchanging glances and eyerolls across rooms, without any particular need to be closer. Kissing her forehead before one of them leaves for work on the rare days that they wake up together. The tiny, almost unnoticeable brushes of butterfly kisses against his skin.)

Now she's stuck in the infirmary, having taken a scythe to the gut because he hadn't assessed the situation correctly. Too many souls, _idiot_ – being short of staff is no excuse to endanger his subordinates on the field through mismanagement. He'd made the compensation by sending the best field pair that they have (with Eric gone, Ronald has inherited the mantle of runner-up and works with Grell like a dream) but he should have foreseen the problem. They hadn't called for backup; William had been sent out only when the soul ledgers had begun to list uncollected names. Too late – always, always, for all that he is punctual and quick he somehow always finds himself to be far too late. Both reapers in the water, deserter gone, hundreds dead. An entire catastrophe on his conscience, again, born from the asinine stubbornness that had prevented him from accompanying them out and working in a trio rather than a pair. The Ripper incidents – his fault, through neglect. Eric's death and Alan's murder – his fault, through naïvety. This whole, glaring, horrible mess – his fault, through pride.

Grell finds him in his office, much later, sitting alone and silent in the darkness. He doesn't look at her when she enters – he keeps staring fixedly at his desk, but his gaze shifts restlessly to the wall, the floor, anywhere but her. After a time she says his name, and he finally looks up.

There are circles under William's eyes and the shame and self-loathing that he's usually so good at squashing down appear to be seeping out of him, casting him sickly and grave. He knows this – has seen it in the mirror, clear as sickness – and yet still finds himself unprepared for the expression on her face. It's pity, discomfort, shame, made all too visible because her makeup is gone and her hair is tied back and she looks almost clinical – cold. She doesn't move further into the room than a pace from the door, and lowers her own eyes after a moment.

“... _Grell_ ,” he manages, just. She's too still, too quiet – a terrible contrast to her usual vivacity. All vibrant smiles have died, all desperate teasing flirtation flown, all sense of life about her warm corpse abandoned in favour of begging his judgement from him; begging to be accepted again in whatever form he chooses to make of her. It's wrong, a horrible condemnation of herself, and even in the face of such silence William's still unsure if he can wipe away the anger that still simmers, ripe from the sight of her bloodlust. Or is it fear? He can't read himself. Everything's unbalanced, swaying gently in the lull, so he stands and makes his way toward her – hesitantly. Grell's eyes lift for a second before plummeting again, ducking her head a little, hunching her shoulders. She's straining to make herself featureless, it seems; devoid of any quirk of characterisation that could swing his feeling over either edge. 

Should he be doing the same?

Even once he's right beside her, Grell doesn't look up. Even though she's making herself seem small, she's still powerful; still the woman who has committed so many evils and could easily do so again. She's not an innocent. She's a murderer.

(But God, he wants to kiss her. It's taking all of the self control that he has ever accumulated to remain impassive; she's not right all held down like that, upset, and it has only ever been his job to comfort her on off days. It's his _responsibility_ , especially as he has been the one to hurt her the most; especially as he has failed her so spectacularly. He wants to hate her, so, so much – but it would be easy to pull her into a protective embrace, hold her until she's herself again, run his fingers through her hair. And yet – he _can't_.)

His fingers find the ridge of the scar instead, and Grell stiffens a little at the touch. “...It wouldn't have killed me,” is the first thing that she says. “Even if I'd had to make my own way back. They said it might not have healed so well, and I would certainly be in some discomfort, but I was never at risk of expiry.”

There's another silence, and then she adds, “Thank you for favouring Ronnie.”

Her hair smells of chemicals, chlorine, but at least it isn't salt. One of her hands brushes his, gentle at first – and then she presses it down, flattening his palm against her stomach with enough force to make herself gasp. William almost flinches. “Why didn't you say something?”

Grell goes very still again; he feels her breathing stop. “I wanted to see how long it would take you to notice. I... I wanted to prove to myself that you cared.”

William laughs, bitterly. “I suppose you weren't looking for the answer that I gave.”

To his surprise she doesn't answer immediately – almost shakes her head, conflict in the aborted action. “Had we been any other pair you would've checked for injuries first thing – had we been anyone else you would have believed us when we told you that there were too many, that we couldn't... but you didn't. You didn't want to see me as your colleague or subordinate – you just saw me as Grell Sutcliff. Liar, slacker, murderer. You saw the blood and knew me too capable to have been so careless as to spill my own; saw the loose souls and knew me too irrational to have done anything but abandon them in favour of enjoying myself. You saw and you abandoned logic in favour of acknowledging that you know me. I don't know that that's care, but – it's something.” She stops – and lets go of his hand before taking a breath and starting again. “I don't need – what we had before. If you don't want to go back to that, I understand. If you want me to tone myself down – if you'd rather I didn't speak to you – if you want me to _transfer_ , Will, I'll do it, I'll–”

“Please,” he starts, but it takes a moment to get further than that. Her emotions are drowning him, that awful clinging need to please him so jarring against a history of serenity. The idea of her being gone is terrifying. The idea of her being as close as before, as though nothing has happened – equally so. “Please, Grell, I –”

“Do you want rid of me?” she asks, voice terribly soft, and he wants to pull her close against himself, and he wants to cast her away.


End file.
